


A Sherlock-Shaped Hole

by AnneCumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Angry John, Background Mystrade, Depressed John, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Friendship, High Sherlock, Inspired by Music, John left, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Partners in Crime, Pining John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch
Summary: I said you look pretty, all strung out on coke. You said that’s not funny, but it wasn’t a joke.You won’t remember, but I carried you home. You sat in the shower while I washed off your clothes.But isn’t that what friends are for, even if we used to be more, like lovers or partners in crime.And you were still mine.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 110
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the wonderful @simplyclockwork and @omalleymeetstibbs for beta-ing this piece! 
> 
> This piece is inspired by the song Partners In Crime by FINNEAS. If you haven't listened to the song, check it out because it's gorgeous.

My shift at St. Thomas’ A&E had run longer than usual due to a staff mix-up, and I was exhausted as I started the walk back to my flat from the tube. Not to mention it was freezing. Cold to the point of irritation. The wind bit through my coat, even though I had zipped it up snuggly, but it was starting to grow thinned by years of use. I wanted to buy another, but limited funds disappeared into bills and rent. Even with my arms wrapped around my chest in an effort to provide an extra layer against the wind, it still felt like needles prickling my skin, cold seeping through me, numbing and painful. Hands tucked securely into my armpits, I tried not to let my fingers freeze off. My breath huffed out in a white cloud, and my thoughts flew ahead of me to my flat, which was only a few more blocks away. Thoughts of a warm bath and a cup of tea at the end of the journey spurred my feet forward, pulling me towards the small, dark flat I now called home. As I walked from the tube exit, I was sorely tempted to call a cab, even for the short distance to keep out of the wind and save myself from freezing entirely before I reached home. 

I’m thankful I didn’t, otherwise I never would have seen him. 

As I passed a side street, something—I still can’t be sure what—made me glance to the side, and I saw him. The last thing I would have expected to see sitting in the filth of the alley, huddled under his dark overcoat: Sherlock Holmes. 

The wind blew around me, but suddenly, I didn’t feel cold at all. I couldn’t move any further. I was frozen in place at the entrance to the alley, looking down at the man I used to share a flat with. The dark curls ruffling in the wind were unmistakable. “Sherlock?” I took a step forward. 

Light blue eyes fluttered up to me, the gaze in them, usually so sharp and exacting, was glazed over and struggling to focus. His pupils were dark pinpoints in an ocean of ice. The coat dropped slightly from in front of his face, and Sherlock grimaced when the cold met skin. “John.” His voice was soft and slightly slurred. 

The man was high as a kite. Anger welled up inside me, before flipping over and bottoming into helpless despair. My left fist clenched, and I struggled to pull myself together. “What are you on?” I ground out through gritted teeth.

Sherlock peered up at me, blinking slowly before closing his eyes and tucking himself under his coat. “None of your business anymore, is it?” 

I reached a hand up and rubbed my eyes. My earlier thoughts of hot tea and a bath grew fainter with each moment. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sniffed back at me, as if he still had some upper ground in our relationship. Our acquaintance. Our… whatever he used to think of me. After a moment of silence, he spoke, tugging the coat more firmly around himself. “Cocaine.” 

“Right.” I glanced around the street and took a step into the alleyway. There was no one else around except for us. The area was out of reach of the CCTV cameras, no doubt chosen by Sherlock for that very reason. I gazed at him for a moment, reacquainting myself with his appearance. I hadn’t seen him in months. I don’t know where they came from, but the words slipped out of my mouth. “You look pretty.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

I swallowed. I don’t know why I said it, what brought those words to the forefront. It was true, he was gorgeous. Even high and sleeping on the street. I don’t know why I didn’t just brush it off. He probably wouldn’t even remember this. “Not a joke.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Not funny.” He sniffled and sneezed abruptly. He scowled at himself and tugged his coat closer, blocking out the chill, and perhaps even me. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral and the strong urge to reprimand him at bay.

“Trying to sleep,” He rolled the words in his mouth, heavy with spite. “What does it matter to you?” 

I glanced down at the pavement. “Why aren’t you at Baker Street?” 

“Why aren’t you?” 

My jaw tightened, and I swallowed. There were many reasons I had left. His re-emerging drug problem having been one of them. “You know why.” 

“Then, there we are.” Sherlock tucked his nose under his coat and closed his eyes. 

“Sherlock… You’ll catch your death out here. It’s freezing.” Sherlock ignored me in favour of huddling deeper under the protective layer. Another gust of wind blew down the alley, and we both shivered. I shifted my weight, stepping from one foot to the other in an attempt to warm myself. I couldn’t leave him here. The temperature would only continue to drop, and I’d seen homeless men brought into hospitals for hypothermia this time of year. Many didn’t make it. My chest tightened with the idea of Sherlock lying on one of those gurneys without anyone knowing what had become of him. “Right. Come on then.” 

Blue eyes peeked up at me. “What?” 

“You’re coming home with me.” 

The eyes narrowed. “Why?” 

“Because I’m a doctor and I can’t in good conscience leave you here. And I can’t call anyone because no one would pick up.” 

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “I don’t need your pity.” 

I reached out my hand to him, stepping closer. I mentally begged him to take my hand. I didn’t know what I would do if he refused. “It’s not pity.” 

Sherlock looked at me for a moment. I was sure he was going to push me away like he always did. To my surprise and great relief, he reached out and grasped my hand. He was very warm. With my other hand resting on his elbow, I helped him struggle to his feet, swaying slightly. As he stood, I seized the chance to check his pulse. “Are you coming down or just starting?” 

“Coming down,” Sherlock murmured, avoiding my eyes. 

“How long?” I gave him a cursory look over, taking in his roughened appearance. 

“Few days.” He was looking off to the side as if suddenly ashamed of his drug use. I had seen it before, and I frowned. What a farce. 

“Right,” I said sharply, lips pursed. “Can you walk?” 

“Mostly.” Sherlock took a few steps forward, leaning away to the side. 

Moving closer, I wrapped my arm around his waist, holding him upright. “Wonderful.” 

“It’s cold,” he grumbled, and shivered against the wind. 

“Yes, it is, genius.” Sherlock felt fragile under my hands. I could feel the minute tremors of his body shivering from the cold. “It’s not far.” 

After all but carrying him back to my flat, it was no small feat getting Sherlock up the two flights of stairs and into my small rooms. Part of me was thankful he was so out of it. I didn’t want to hear his deductions about the current condition of my life or what the space implied about me. The space was unimpressive. The minimal lighting was functional because there were minimal things to light. A tiny kitchenette with a dinged-up electric kettle bought at a second-hand shop was blocked in by a small table pressed against the wall with a single chair tucked into it. A small television set with a ratty sofa rested against the other wall, and in the small space between them, a narrow doorway opened to a twin bed with the blankets tucked neatly. There was a small bathroom with a tub/shower. The bathtub was one of the few luxuries I had allowed myself when I rented the flat. Worth the extra cost. Sherlock would have been right with whatever he said about the flat, whatever he inferred. I just didn’t want to hear it. I knew how poor I was, how alone, how miserable. It didn’t matter, and this was what I had. This was where I lived. 

I set him in the chair and shrugged off my coat, placing both it and my shoes in the tiny hall closet. I moved into the kitchenette and set the kettle to boil. “Right. Into the tub with you.” 

Sherlock scowled at me. “I don’t have any clothes.” 

“Doesn’t matter. You reek.” I held out a hand, which he promptly ignored in favour of staggering to his feet under his own depleted power. He struggled out of his overcoat; his forehead wrinkled in concentration. I watched for a moment; my chest tight as I witnessed his apparent vulnerability before helping him shrug it off. Sherlock grumbled beneath his breath, pulling his arms roughly away from their fabric confinement. “I don’t want to shower.” 

I folded the coat and draped it across the back of the chair once he was free of it. “Sherlock, you need a bath. To clean up _and_ to warm up.” I touched his arm gently. “It’ll be warm. You can have tea after.” 

Sherlock hesitated before nodding. “M’feeling tired.” 

“You can sleep after. Get some rest.” 

Sherlock nodded, his remaining energy seeming to leach away until I was the only thing keeping him standing.

After half dragging him into the bathroom, I turned on the shower and ducked into my room to grab a clean towel. When I came back, Sherlock had crawled into the tub and was sitting fully clothed under the warm spray. His gaze seemed to be caught somewhere on the wall. I set the towel on the toilet lid and knelt on the other side of the tub. “Sherlock?” I called, frowning when he didn’t immediately react. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s eyes slowly peeled away from the wall and landed on me. They were glazed and bloodshot. How long had he gone without real rest? 

My heart ached. What had become of him? When did things change so much? “You need some help, love?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “M’showering.” 

“Right. Can I help you?” 

Sherlock nodded, his gaze falling off to the side. He leaned his head against the tile. 

“Let’s get you clean, alright?” I said gently, touching his shoulder with light fingers.

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes fluttering closed. 

I removed his shoes and socks and set them to the side. I didn’t bother to remove his clothes before I poured shampoo gently into his curls and began to wash his hair. It was matted and dirty. The water was grey as it poured off him and spiraled down the drain. 

As I washed his hair, he began to relax. Rinsing out his hair, I was also able to rinse off his clothes. They were filthy. I removed them carefully, trying to be as professional and distant as possible. Sherlock was barely aware, but I was still trying to preserve his modesty as best I could. In pulling off his shirt sleeves, I noted the fresh track marks in the flat plain of his forearm and ran a gentle thumb over them. A tinge of regret rose, and I wished he hadn’t fallen back on such a self-destructive habit. 

After I cleaned his long body, thinner than I remembered it, I added conditioner to his hair, carefully running my fingers over his scalp and through matted curls. He hummed quietly, leaning into my touch. The softness of him tugged at me, and I couldn’t help but run a thumb across his cheekbone as I tilted his head back to rinse his hair again. It was indulgent of me, but I couldn’t resist the urge. It was staggering to be this close to him again. To be taking care of him. I had missed taking care of him, missed making sure he was alright. 

But no amount of care I gave tonight would move towards our reconciliation because Sherlock likely wouldn’t remember anything in the morning. And he probably wouldn’t care if he did. But regardless, that's what friends did, wasn’t it? Friends took care of each other. Were we even friends? Hardly. More acquaintances, now. Had we ever really been friends? I couldn’t imagine taking care of another friend the way I had once taken care of Sherlock. Nor could I imagine caring for someone as much as I cared for Sherlock. Had cared. _Did_ care. I did care. I couldn’t be certain which tense was more applicable. Both fit, probably, in their own way. Regardless, when morning came, Sherlock would be gone, and life would continue to be what it was. Because that was all we were now. Acquaintances. Even though we used to be more. Something more than friends. Not quite lovers, but not _not_ -lovers, I supposed. We had belonged to each other. That was the simplest way to put a relationship that had been anything but simple. 

I finished cleaning Sherlock and raised him up, quickly drying him and wrapping him in a towel. I led him into my room and dressed him in clothes I hoped would fit. He managed to drink some of the tea I made and eat a protein bar before I settled him into my bed, cozy and dry. He snuggled underneath the covers and was asleep in an instant, like a candlelight snuffed out in one breath. 

Grabbing an extra blanket, I turned off the light and left the room. I would sleep on the sofa. It would be a fine arrangement for the night. Unable to stop myself, I looked back at him once more before I left the room. A cavity opened in my chest as I thought of all I had lost when I left Baker Street. I hadn’t just lost a friend, I had lost… everything. 

Regardless of whatever we had once been to one another, we were something different now. I hadn’t seen him for months. Not since Sherlock had come back, and we had argued and argued. We had both tried so hard, but then came the drugs and, well. We just weren’t anymore. We weren’t whatever we had been. Friends. Partners. It was obvious we wouldn’t be again. 

But, looking back at Sherlock, I couldn’t help but wish we could somehow reverse the clock, to before things had gone so wrong, to when Sherlock had been mine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You said we should get out while we still could. And I should have listened, but I misunderstood._   
>  _Thought you wanted me tied down. It started to chafe. But it’s easy to see now, you just wanted me safe._   
>  _And when the cops broke down our door and held us both against our floor._   
>  _Did we look like lovers or partners in crime? Did you look like mine?_

Sherlock left before I woke up. Where his clothes had hung, left to dry, only empty hangers remained, the clothing I’d given him folded neatly on the toilet seat. The bed was neatly made, the blankets smoothed out by large hands. Part of me was devastated to find the flat empty, while the other part was relieved. I didn’t know what I’d say to him once he was sober. The space he’d left behind was crushing, at first. But I had been alone before. He’d left me before. And I had left him, to be fair. I was the one who moved out of Baker Street, despite Sherlock begging me not to. So, the emptiness of the flat was, really, exactly what I wanted. Or at least that was what I kept telling myself. 

The flat seemed even smaller than normal. Small, yet somehow cavernous. It was just enough room for one person and yet, last night, two had fit comfortably. Sherlock’s absence felt like such a gaping space in my life. As if I was born with a Sherlock-shaped hole next to me. And when I met him, it was like a light filling a dark room, and I understood why that space had always existed. But it had been empty longer than it had been filled. So, I knew how to be alone. More specifically, I knew how to survive being alone, knew to just keep moving forward. It’s what I did when he jumped, it’s what I’d continue doing until I figured out what I was supposed to be doing. For now, work sustained me, the routine, the responsibility. 

As I was running behind, I caught a different bus than my usual route. I snagged a window seat and spent the next twenty minutes staring at London as it passed by, a wash of cold grey. I tried not to think of Sherlock, wondering where he might be, if he was okay. Sherlock wasn’t my problem anymore. I didn’t have the privilege of knowing where he was. 

It was still hard to understand why he had left me in the first place after jumping off Barts. Why didn’t he take me with him? It was a constant question in the back of my head. I thought I was starting to do well, back in the time before he jumped. Learning his craft. Beginning to see how things connected, starting to make my own inferences. All wrong, of course, but I was trying. I could have been useful. If he had taken me along, maybe we would still be friends. Maybe he wouldn’t have turned to the drugs. 

I transferred busses and was forced to stand. I examined the floor of the bus as it covered the final stretch of the journey, caught up in my thoughts. I had lost everyone when I walked out of Baker Street. No one would talk to me. Sherlock once insisted he had no friends, but they were _all_ his friends. And now they were definitely not mine. They didn’t answer my texts, my calls. They didn’t see me anymore. It was as if I had become a villain to them. I hadn’t meant to hurt Sherlock. But he had hurt me too, couldn’t he see that? Didn’t anyone see that? He was hurting us both. I didn’t know what else to do. I knew he just wanted me to be safe, but he never saw how much I had simply wanted him. Wanted to be near him. To be _with_ him. 

At the hospital, I donned my white coat upon the start of my shift. I donned a white coat, grabbed a file, and entered the first room in the A&E. The excitement of my work was nothing like what Sherlock and I used to do. The thrills we used to experience. I recalled when the commissioner came to arrest Sherlock for Moriarty’s crimes, and I punched him. My shoulders rolled back as I remembered the exhilaration of standing up for him, the thrill of protecting him. The feel of Sherlock’s arm around me as he pulled me away from the police car and we ran off into the night. I wondered if Sherlock ever considered whether the police thought we were lovers or just partners in crime? If I could go back, I’d take either. Anything. Anything to just be the way we were again. 

Had he looked like mine? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Questions and comments are always welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Or did we look like fools, trying to get away with it all. Thinking we’d be saved by the call from each other._   
>  _We were on the same boat._   
>  _Didn’t see you for ages, didn’t pick up your phone. Made it out of our cages, never made it back home._

It’d been almost two years since I saw him last. He used to be in the newspapers, but I hadn’t heard his name in around a year. My coworkers used to come up and ask if I knew anything else. If I’d be updating my blog. I reminded them that while he was solving cases, I’d been working shifts in the hospital. Since then, they backed off. But the news had been quiet about him for a year, even with the occasional murder happening. I was afraid he might be dead. Overdosed in an alley somewhere, his body lying cold and abandoned, waiting for someone to stumble upon it. The thought made me feel sick in the core of my being and I tried not to linger on the possibility.

Why hadn’t we both tried harder? Tried harder to make it work between us? I could have compromised more. Sherlock might have tried to compromise more. We would have made it work. I could have gotten him clean. I shouldn’t have left. I regretted it. And now, I didn't think I would ever see him again. 

There was a time when that was the only thing I wanted, to see him again, to know he was alive. How did I forget that so quickly once he came back? How did I come to take his presence for granted? Why was I so careless and angry? If I had shown him, told him how much I cared, maybe he would have been okay. We would have been okay. 

I’d been in counselling for the last two years. For help with my anger issues. As much as I’d hated it, it helped me process my feelings about Sherlock, about myself. About both of us. Really made me see how much I had lost. 

Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Mycroft. They must have thought us fools. Thought we were absolute fools for letting each other leave. I had always thought Sherlock would come after me. Had he thought I would come back? Were we always waiting for the other to make a move, wishing we were back together, trapped in a stalemate neither of us realised we were in?

Fuck, all that time wasted, the time we could have spent together and now, he was probably dead, and I’d never see him again. 

I texted him. Called him. His phone number had been changed. Or deactivated. I stopped by Baker Street, just… to check, and Mrs. Hudson refused to see me. I texted Greg, and he agreed to get a drink but refused to talk about Sherlock. I had wasted my chance. I wished I hadn’t let him leave that next morning. I wished I had woken up in time to see him and talk to him one last time. 

I wished we had found our way back to each other, because now it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Questions and comments are always welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was late to the party of an old family friend. I was looking for parking, thought I saw you again._   
>  _Someone I’ve seen before; you couldn’t look any more like a lover or partner in crime._   
>  _Or something of mine._   
>  _I said you looked pretty, all strung out on coke. You said it’s not funny, but it wasn’t a joke._

Greg and Mycroft were recently engaged. I was happy for them when I heard the news. Mycroft clearly still hated me, but Greg would occasionally agree to meet up with me every now and then for a drink. I was trying to be a better man. Greg knew that, bless him. Sherlock’s name was never brought up. The absence of his name stung more than if it had been mentioned frequently. It made my Sherlock-shaped hole far larger and far darker than it had ever been. I often felt it hanging over me. It reminded me that I had been too late to realise what a fool I had been. That I had been far too late to go back to him. 

I was invited to the engagement party. It was a kind offer. I was happy to know Greg had found someone who really loved him. He kept asking if I’d found someone, but really, I hadn’t been interested in dating since Sherlock jumped off Barts—so going on four, four and a half years now. I just couldn’t bring myself to invest in someone else. Anyway. Greg gave me a list of wines Mycroft drinks, so I bought them something they’d actually use. Bloody expensive, but hopefully softened the fact I was there at all. 

It was a cold night, the wind blowing pretty hard. I was walking from the tube to Mycroft’s, wrapped in my coat, and that night from two years ago when I saw Sherlock in the alley flashed across my mind. I had to stop for a moment to let the grief welling inside me calm. What was done was done. The past could not be changed. I pushed my shoulders back and continued on toward Mycroft’s flat. The flats in the area were very posh, even more so in the glow from the streetlamps, and the street was full of parked cars. 

As I neared the address, a cab pulled in front of the address, and a man emerged from the cab with his back to me. He was dressed in an expensive black suit with a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck. His hair was carefully coiffed. A wealthy friend of Mycroft’s, I assumed. He turned to enter the house, and as the streetlamps illuminated his face, I nearly dropped the gift bag I was carrying in shock. 

His name slipped from my lips in a whisper, “Sherlock.” 

He turned to me, his back straight and his eyes clear and bright. He took me in at a glance, and his forehead creased. He nodded stiffly. “John.” 

I couldn’t help but stare at him. He was standing there in one piece, and he looked well. He looked healthy and strong and so much like the Sherlock I had once known. The Sherlock who had been mine, who had filled the Sherlock-shaped space in my life. Here he was, alive and standing in front of me. The universe had given me yet another chance to tell him, to go back to him. 

I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, another man stepped out of the cab and rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alright?” He gazed at me with bright brown eyes, almost taller than Sherlock with a strong jawline and playful smile. 

Sherlock smiled faintly at him before nodding at me. “Nice to see you, John.” He turned away, and he and the other man walked up the front steps, into the brightly lit home. I could hear the sounds of the party from where I stood on the pavement. 

I stood still on the concrete; my mouth open as if I could pull him back outside with my words. Clamping my mouth shut, I tugged my coat more firmly around myself as the wind rustled around me. Right. Perhaps the universe had not given me another chance. Perhaps it had been telling me I’d had my chances, and I should move on. Sherlock clearly had. Not only was he alive, but he was... involved. Whoever the other man was, I no longer had a place in Sherlock’s life. 

Sherlock’s empty space wasn’t shaped like me, clearly. 

It took all of my remaining strength to enter the house. Greg spotted me quickly and came over to hang up my coat, take my gift, and shake my hand. “Glad you could make it, John,” he greeted with a smile. “Drinks and food are through there. Thank you for the wine, I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.” 

“Of course.” I smiled back at him, trying to infuse genuine joy for him into my expression. “Congratulations, mate. I’m chuffed for you and Mycroft.” 

Greg grinned, his eyes darting across the room in search of his betrothed. “Thanks, John. I’ll catch up with you later, alright? Enjoy the party.” And with that, he moved to join Mycroft, who was standing near a lit fireplace in a room over, tall and intimidating as he always was. 

It was the first time I’d seen him in nearly three years. My heart clenched when I saw Sherlock standing opposite him, talking to him with a smile on his face. It had been so long since I’d seen Sherlock smile, I couldn’t find it in myself to look away from his face. The man accompanying him stood comfortably at his side, leaning against the mantle, his eyes sparkling as he grinned. I watched Greg join them and wrap his arms around Mycroft’s middle. Their smiles lit up the room. They had all clearly found their happiness, while I had lost mine through my own foolishness. 

Aware I was now intruding on a private family moment, I ducked my head and wandered among chatting guests to the room where refreshments were laid out. My plan was to grab a quick drink and then head out. There wasn’t a place for me here. I shouldn’t have come. 

I grabbed a drink, unashamed as I took advantage of an expensive bottle of scotch. I stood in the corner of the room, out of the way of the unfamiliar guests, sipping my drink and counting down the minutes until I could slip out. To my surprise, a familiar figure walked into the room and wove through the other guests, moving toward the drinks table. “Mike?” I called, startled to see him.

Mike turned and smiled. “John! Fancy seeing you here. How are you?” 

“I’m doing alright, mate, how are you?” My soul warmed at the sight of his familiar face, even more so when he actually seemed pleased to see me. 

“Quite alright, quite alright,” he replied with friendly ease. “Still teaching. What have you been up to?” 

“I work A&E shifts at St. Thomas. I didn’t realize you knew Mycroft and Greg.” 

“I’m a friend of the Holmes family,” Mike said, smiling. “We go back a fair way. It’s how I knew Sherlock in the first place.” His warm eyes were soft. “But I’ve gotten to know Greg over the years as well. I consulted them on Sherlock’s rehab programme.” 

I felt myself stiffen as something clinched tight in my chest. “Sherlock’s rehab programme?” I repeated softly.

“Yes, didn’t you know?” Mike poured a drink for himself, seemingly oblivious to my silent shock. 

I shifted my weight uneasily, trying not to sound as desperately interested as I felt. “No. No, I’ve been out of touch with him for a few years.” 

“Oh.” Mike gave me a curious look. “You didn’t know he had fallen back into his old habits then?” 

“No, I knew that. I just didn’t know he went to rehab. When was this?” 

“He entered sometime last year,” Mike replied, swirling his drink thoughtfully. “He was an in-patient for three months before he was moved to an out-patient facility. Then, I think he was recently travelling abroad with Victor. Switzerland, perhaps? He just moved back to London a few weeks ago.” 

I swallowed. “I had no idea. Who’s Victor?” 

“Childhood friend. They reunited at… the outpatient rehab center, I believe. He’s here tonight.” Mike nodded, looking pleased. “Sherlock’s doing quite well. He seems very happy now. From what I’ve heard, he’s become a certified consultant for the Yard, but you’d have to get those details from Greg.” 

I downed what was left of my scotch. All this time, all my agonizing, and he’d been fine all along. Was and had been happy. And I had been miserable. Still was. Sherlock wanted nothing to do with me now, and rightly so. I smiled grimly. “Thanks for telling me, Mike.” I set the empty glass on the table with an unsteady hand. “I think I’m going to head out, actually.” 

Mike’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “So soon?” 

I nodded. “I have somewhere to be.” 

“Wife waiting at home?” Mike smiled congenially. 

The image of my empty dark flat floated in front of my eyes. “No. No, it’s just me.” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “I just have an early shift tomorrow. Better get going.” 

“I think they’re planning a toast to the happy couple,” Mike said with a frown, clearly picking up on my tone. “You won’t stay for that?” 

I shook my head. “Best not, I think. I’ve already said my congratulations to Greg. Sorry, Mike, I can’t catch up more. I should go.” 

“Well, alright,” he replied, appearing bemused, if not a little troubled by my behavior. “Nice to see you, John. Have a good night.” Mike raised his glass and smiled in farewell. 

I returned the nod and turned, twisting my way through the guests until I came to the front entrance. I went to the closet to search for my coat when I heard a voice behind me. Familiar, shocking, one I had once resigned myself to never hearing again.

“Leaving so soon?” 

I swiveled, and there was Sherlock, standing a few feet away, looking at me. My face felt warm, and I looked down. “Yeah, early shift tomorrow.” When I looked up, Sherlock’s eyes scanned me, and it was clear that we both knew I was lying. 

I turned back to the closet and grabbed my coat, now feeling self-conscious. I could see how worn it was, how old, in comparison to Sherlock’s expensive, crisp new suit. I carried my jacket in front of me like a shield and spun, moving around him, unable to meet his eyes. “Give my congratulations to Greg and Mycroft,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “I’m very happy for them.” I reached the door and practically flung myself out of it, desperate to escape the heat and pressing weight of the party, the pressure of their happiness, the weight of Sherlock’s gaze. The wind was a cold welcome shock to my system, and I hurried down the front steps to the pavement.

“John, wait!” The front door closed as Sherlock stepped out onto the front landing. I stopped where I was but couldn’t bring myself to look at his face. I shrugged on my coat. 

“Whatever you feel like you have to say, you don’t,” I said softly, knowing the wind would carry my quiet words to him. “I’m really happy for you, Sherlock. I hope you and Victor are happy together. You make a beautiful couple. I need to get going.” I trudged down the pavement toward the tube station. 

“John!” Sherlock called after me, and I faltered but continued on. “Please, stop. Wait.” Sherlock rushed down the steps and grabbed onto my arm.

I jerked away from him but stopped when I saw his face. He looked… confused. What had he been expecting from me? Had he thought I would be bitter to him? Angry? Resentful? Maybe he had never known me at all. “Did you not think I would be happy for you?” I asked, affronted. “I’m not that much of an arsehole.” 

Sherlock blinked and tucked his hands deeply into his suit jacket pocket, shoulders hunched against the cold. “You’re not an arsehole. I just don’t know what you mean. Victor and I aren’t a couple.” 

I scoffed and gestured back to the house. “And Greg is straight. Go on, pull the other one.” 

Sherlock swallowed and looked off to the side. “We’re not together, John. We’re just friends. I’m not dating him.” 

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Right. My apologies.” Sherlock nodded, and I studied his face. “What did you want?” 

Sherlock blinked, seemingly taken aback. I suppose my tone was a bit harsh, but it was too late to take it back. “I wanted to ask how you’ve been. How you are.” 

I couldn’t help but scowl at him. “As if you care for how I am,” I said bitterly, my tense emotions breaking free from my rigid control. “Is this one of your 12 steps towards recovery?” 

Sherlock recoiled, looking as if I had struck him. “What?” 

I waved a hand between us. “You know. Is this the last thing you have before you can really graduate from your rehab program? Check off ‘make sure John knows you’re happier without him?’ Because I got it, thank you.” 

“John,” Sherlock stammered out in protest, but a dam had broken, and the words poured out. 

“You didn’t look pleased to see me when I arrived, and you haven’t contacted me in two years,” I told him, my voice hard. “Not even after I pulled you out of the gutter that night. I thought you had _died,_ and no one would talk to me about you. So, I get it, okay? I got your message loud and clear.” As I spoke, I could feel my composure weakening and to my horror, emotion welling up in my throat. “And I’m glad you’ve found happiness, really, I am. But, please, go be happy somewhere else.” My voice cracked. Shit. _Shit_. I was ruining everything, making an even worse mess of a poor situation. I couldn’t be more of a fuck-up, and that moment proved it. The universe had given me one last chance to tell him I was sorry, and there I was, doing exactly the opposite. I reached out and grabbed at Sherlock’s arm, holding him still as he started to walk away. “No, wait, please.” 

Sherlock’s eyes darted across my face, his expression deeply confused. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“I’m sorry.” My voice was quiet, and my throat felt dry and raw. “I didn’t mean that. Any of it. Not when I said to go somewhere else or when I was talking about your rehab program. I didn’t mean any of it. I—that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said any of that. Can we do this again?” 

Sherlock blinked at me. “Do what again?” 

“This conversation.” I let go of his arm and waved between us. “Just… just ask me how I am again, please.” 

Sherlock hesitated and shifted uncomfortably. “How are you?” 

I straightened and exhaled. “I miss you.” Sherlock’s eyes widened, and I plunged forward. “I regret leaving. I regret not trying harder in our friendship. I regret not cherishing every minute you allowed me to spend with you and being thankful that you were and are alive. I…” I paused to breathe, my voice wavering. “I would like to try again. To be friends with you. To be in your life, in any capacity you will allow. I’ll take anything you wish to give me. I want to try again. Please.” Bracing myself, I looked into his eyes and was surprised to see softness there. 

Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on my arm. “John. Of course.”

My shoulders sank in relief, and I reached out and grabbed his arm in return. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted so much time.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I am responsible. If it weren’t for—”

I interrupted him, “I shouldn’t have left when you were struggling. You needed me, and I didn’t stay.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have left you, either. I care very much for you, John.”

I squeezed his arm, my heart lighting up. A gust of wind rolled down the alley, and we both shivered. “You’re freezing. I’m so sorry, you don’t have a coat.” 

Sherlock shivered and smiled sheepishly. “It is a bit cold.”

“Right. Let’s…” I thought for a moment. “Let’s get you back inside and maybe meet for lunch tomorrow? Start to get to know each other again?” 

“Won’t you come back inside with me?” 

I hesitated. “I don’t think I should. But will you have lunch with me?” 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. I have an hour break for lunch, but I’m sure Greg will be flexible. I’m ahead on my paperwork.” 

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. “Look at you, working at the Yard. Mike told me about your new job.” 

Sherlock ducked his head and smiled. “It took some getting used to. But the stability is nice. And I get better morgue privileges.” 

“Very important.” My hand slipped down his arm to rest against his. I squeezed quickly before releasing my grip. 

Sherlock grabbed my hand before I could pull away entirely. “John, I want you to know I am grateful for what you did for me two years ago.”

He was talking about that night. The night I found him in the alley. “I’m glad I found you,” I said in a soft voice. 

“If it weren’t for you, I probably would have died,” Sherlock admitted, his eyes intent upon my face. “The next day, when I woke up in your flat, I went to go see Mycroft. I was enrolled in a rehabilitation facility the very next day.” 

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Oh.” 

“Yes.” 

I nodded. “I went to therapy. For my anger. It’s better. I’m trying to do better now.” 

A hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “We’re _both_ better now.” 

I smiled before realizing that he was still holding my hand. I looked down at our clasped fingers and squeezed tightly. I didn’t want to let him go. 

“Come back inside with me,” Sherlock whispered, holding firmly to my hand. 

I was still for a moment. The words emerged, unexpected but without hesitation. “I love you.” I looked up at him. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened before softening, small crinkles appearing at the corners. He raised my hand to his lips. “I know.” 

A lump grew in my throat, and I closed my eyes. “I think I always have.” 

Sherlock stepped closer until I could feel the heat from his chest. “I know, John.” 

“I just wanted you to know, in case that changes anything.” My voice emerged as a whisper. 

“I think it could change things if you wish it to.” Sherlock’s head ducked closer to mine, and I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. 

I opened my mouth and failed to find the words I needed. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was so close, and everything I felt swirled around my head and through my chest.

Sherlock reached up and gently closed my mouth before pressing his lips against my own. I grabbed his arm and held him close, deepening the kiss. At that moment, my mind went blissfully blank, the world shrinking down to the space containing only Sherlock Holmes and myself. The love of my life, and me. The Sherlock-shaped space was finally full and good and solid, no longer empty and gaping, but full of love and Sherlock. My love for the man was overflowing.

After a moment, we separated, and he pressed our foreheads together, breathing quiet puffs of white mist into the cold night air. 

“Lunch. Tomorrow.” I punctuated my words with chaste kisses around his mouth. 

“Yes. Lunch.” Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he was smiling. He brought his hand up and caressed my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. 

I smiled and leaned my cheek into his hand. “You should go back inside. It’s cold.” 

Sherlock leaned forward, and we met in another kiss on the pavement in front of Mycroft’s flat. A life changing space of pavement. “I will,” he murmured against my lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow, John.” 

I nodded, squeezing his hand tightly as he started walking backwards away from me. His eyes sparkled in the lamplight, and his face was flushed pink from both the cold and the kissing. “You look pretty,” I called after him, mouth quirking up at the corners.

Sherlock’s flush deepened. “That’s not funny.” 

I hummed softly, remembering the same exchange from two years ago. “Not a joke.” 

Sherlock smiled at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Text me. My number’s the same.” 

“I will.” Sherlock turned and went up the stairs towards the front door before turning back. “John?” 

“Yeah?” I looked up at him from where I was still standing. 

“I love you, too.” 

I grinned. “I know.” 

Sherlock’s returning grin was wide as he chuckled softly and ducked back into the warmth of the house. 

I walked away from the flat, heart full and, finally, without regret. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and questions are always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and Questions are always welcome.


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